Into the west when the dawn was pearly Clouds of white wings went, dewy-early, Straight from the world of the waning stars; O beating pinions! O prison bars! My dove flies free no more with the rest Into the west. AT THE SOUND OF THE DRUM Are you going for a soldier with your curly yellow hair, And a scarlet coat instead of the smock you used to wear? Are you going to drive the foe as you used to drive the plough? Are you going for a soldier now? I am going for a soldier, and my tunic is of red And I’m tired of woman’s chatter, and I’ll hear the drum instead; I will break the fighting line as you broke your plighted vow, For I’m going for a soldier now. For a soldier, for a soldier are you sure that you will go, To hear the drums a-beating and to hear the bugles blow? I’ll make you sweeter music, for I’ll swear another vow-- Are you going for a soldier now? I am going for a soldier if you’d twenty vows to make; You must get another sweetheart, with another heart to break, For I’m sick of lies and women and the harrow and the plough, And I’m going for a soldier now! THE GOOSE-GIRL I wandered lonely by the sea, As is my daily use, I saw her drive across the lea The gander and the goose. The gander and the gray, gray goose, She drove them all together; Her cheeks were rose, her gold hair loose, All in the wild gray weather. “O dainty maid who drive the geese Across the common wide, Turn, turn your pretty back on these And come and be my bride. I am a poet from the town, And, ’mid the ladies there, There is not one would wear a crown With half your charming air!” She laughed, she shook her pretty head. “I want no poet’s hand; Go read your fairy-books,” she said, “For this is fairy-land. My Prince comes riding o’er the leas; He fitly comes to woo, For I’m a Princess, and my geese Were poets, once, like you!” THE PEDLAR Fly, fly, my pretty pigeon, fly! And see if you can find him; He has blue eyes--you’ll know him by,-- He wears a pack behind him. He’s gone away--ah! many a mile Because he could not please me, And, oh! ’twill be a weary while Ere next he comes to tease me. He carries wares of every kind, Fine ribbons, silks, and laces, Bargains to rhyme with every mind, And hues to suit all faces. He has gold rings and pretty things That other maids will throng for, Ah, pigeon! spread your pretty wings, And fly to him I long for.